Beet Water, Old Notes
I used to really love writing. In my early teens, I wrote endless fairytales and adventure stories (some of them by hand in old college-ruled notebooks that I still have kicking around somewhere).
In my later teens and early 20s, I actually blogged extensively! My DIY blog had lots of journaling bits and pieces as I shared simple projects during the height of DIY culture (was anyone else obsessed with A Beautiful Mess? That’s my millennial showing).
But somewhere along the way, between starting businesses and figuring out who I am, I became caught up in monetization of it all, and stopped simply writing for the sake of writing. Who would want to hear my musings anyway? What would I even write about? What if I was attacked for my beliefs, or stances, or values, or what-have-you? With all of the vitriol I see on social media every day, I’ve been nervous to let too much of myself show if I become more personal in what I wrote.
But Rooted & Rendered is so much more of me than I give it credit for! It may be my weaving brand, where I talk about and sell handmade textiles, but it is quickly becoming where my true colors show up best.
I want you to know the artist behind the loom, the weaver as a mother, the maker as a homebody.
I want to share my love of frugality and thrifting, creating a beautiful life, investing in the aesthetics of it all, instead of just writing about weaving decor tips.
Recently I joined Threads, and for a while, I found a space that’s fun to write in and navigate, and it gave me the courage to start writing again. I enjoyed reading little serial-type writings from other artists, so I started typing. Here’s a memory story I recently shared over there and thought my readers here might enjoy.
Carolyn with my mother, 1969 or thereabouts.
When I was little my Grammy had a sewing room. Her sewing machine, serger, knitting machine, and various tables & shelves of thread, yarn, and fabric filled the bright space. On the walls were quilts she had made, and an old note from her father that said, “Carolyn, no smoking in the house please”. His name was Pasquale and he immigrated from Italy when he was 17.
But back to my Grammy. She married a hippie with WASP parents who didn’t like her, but he loved her. He had big tattoos on his forearms from his time in the Navy and a bushy brown beard. While she sewed and knitted and quilted things for her grandkids, he tinkered on his hand-built radios in his basement ‘shack’ and chatted to his ham radio friends.
I have strong memories of being allowed to push the slider thing back and forth across the knitting machine and making a little piece of machine-knitted cloth for my American Girl doll. I was fascinated by it all. My Grammy even introduced me to digital photography! She had a little Casio Exilim that I thought was so cool. She was ahead of her time.
She wasted not, wanted not. Everything was put to use, because she grew up with thrifty parents and a father who gardened. I even remember her making pink bread because she couldn’t bring herself to throw out the water she had used to boil beets.
Grammy is part of my legacy and a big reason why I am who I am, and I’m really proud to be part of a self-sufficient, creative lineage. I miss her. Maybe I’ll write more about her in the future.
